by Jerry Nelson
Enclosed is a toy stuffed monkey to help you get started. It will be up to you and your little guy to decide what sort of adventures the monkey might have and what kind of messes he might get into. No matter what they may be, they will most certainly be special.
The enclosed monkey is not the original Monkey I used to entertain our boys. That Monkey is enjoying a quiet retirement high up on a closet shelf in Christopher’s room.
After all, he deserves it. Especially after that time when he mistook a flamethrower for a Waterpik. •
I’m Gonna Marry Mrs. Mortimer!
Everyone remembers the first time they fell totally and hopelessly in love. I remember my first as a period of quiet times spent together, holding hands in public, thrilling to that “special” look across a crowded room.
My third grade teacher, Mrs. Mortimer, was an angel.
Ours was no ordinary love, but then Mrs. Mortimer was no ordinary woman. Her love was so powerful, she was willing to risk her very life for me.
I don’t recall the exact moment when I first realized that I had special feelings for Mrs. Mortimer. I think it was when she selected me—much to my classmates’ great envy—to empty the wastepaper basket.
I soon began to actually look forward to attending school. And this from a kid who had previously spent school mornings under the couch, dodging the broom handle that Mom was using to flush me out of my hiding place.
Once I comprehended the seriousness of my condition, I knew that there was only one thing a guy could do: Mrs. Mortimer and I must be married. I shared my plans for the future with my pal Ernie one day while we ate lunch.
Mrs. Mortimer “happened” to walk past our table and gave me one of her special smiles, a tiny grin that caused my heart to swell with unbounded joy. When she was out of earshot, I said to Ernie, “I’m gonna marry Mrs. Mortimer!”
“You dope,” Ernie said. “You can’t marry her.”
“Why not?” I said. “She’s a woman, and I’m . . . Well, I’m gonna be a man someday.”
“That’s not it, dummy. It’s ’cause of her first name: Missus. That means she’s already married.”
I was devastated. I was so depressed that when Ernie dumped his peas into his milk and said he was drinking newts’ eyeballs, I could barely manage a weak giggle.
As it is with that crazy roller coaster called love, one day I was given a ray of hope. Someone had seen Mrs. Mortimer’s husband, and reports were that he was old. His age was estimated at thirty-five, perhaps even forty. This was encouraging news indeed. Why, the man had one foot in the grave. It would only be a short while before my favorite teacher would become a widow. And who would be there, ready to give solace, eager to empty the wastepaper basket? You guessed it.
I had no idea whether Mrs. Mortimer had the same feelings for me that I had for her. That is, not until that fateful day when she laid down her life for me.
It was a warm spring afternoon and I had been playing hard at recess. I found it necessary to remove my coat and decided to hang it in our classroom closet. This wasn’t because I was any sort of neat freak, but mainly so that I could catch a glimpse of my ladylove as she corrected papers.
I lingered at the doorway, drinking in the sight of her as she marked math tests with her red pen. But I tarried a bit too long and the automatic closer shut the door on my fingers.
Mrs. Mortimer rushed to my side at the sound of my yelps. She inspected my hand and, without hesitation, spirited me off to the boys’ bathroom. “Oh, no!” I thought as she led me over to the sink to run cold water over my injury.
We boys had been told (by the girls) that if a boy were to enter the girls’ john, his head would instantly spin around and explode. That’s if he was lucky. If he was unlucky, the rest of his brief life would be turned into a living hell by hordes of girl cooties.
I assumed that it worked both ways, so I looked up at Mrs. Mortimer for what I thought was the last time. The tears I shed weren’t just from pain, but also for the heroic woman who loved me so dearly that she was willing to make the ultimate sacrifice.
But then . . . a miracle. Her head didn’t explode. No doubt her love for me was so strong that she was able to overcome the effects of boy cooties and save my life! Such a profound and selfless love comes along perhaps once every million years.
After third grade, Mrs. Mortimer and I drifted apart and went our separate ways. I have no idea what became of her.
If you’re out there, Mrs. Mortimer, please know this: There is a certain former third grader who will empty your wastepaper basket anytime. •
Staying Married to a Dairy Farmer
I recently received a letter from a man named Wilfred who mentioned that he is eighty-eight years old. The envelope bore only my name and hometown, but arrived intact and on time. Try that with email. Wilfred said that he and his wife, who is a mere eighty-seven, have been married for sixty-five years. There aren’t many who can truthfully say that their marriage license would be eligible for Social Security.
I wrote back to Wilfred and congratulated him and his bride for their long marriage. I also noted that there are probably some who are still saying, “Yeah, well. I bet it won’t last.”
Marriage is a dicey proposition at best. Half of all unions end in divorce court, while the other half end at the funeral parlor. Neither prospect seems very pleasant. And it doesn’t help that supermarket tabloids spew a torrent of gunk about movie star hookups and breakups. What? You mean to say that marriages made in Hollywood don’t last? Who would have thought?
My wife and I have been married for over thirty years, which means we’re still on training wheels compared to Wilfred and his wife. But even at this early stage, we’ve managed to accumulate some insights regarding what it takes to make it last. Here are a few tidbits:
• Be prepared to compromise.
One evening, when my wife and I were newlyweds, she asked, “Do you suppose we could go out on a date tonight? You know, dinner and a movie?”
I pointed out that the whole point of being married was that a person would quit dating. Besides, as struggling young dairy farmers, we could scarcely afford such an extravagance as movie tickets. We had a perfectly good TV that received four perfectly good channels.
My wife was insistent, so I compromised by taking her out for dinner and a movie. When we returned home to our little farm, we were greeted by a swarm of flashing red lights.
It seems that our cows had noticed our departure and used the opportunity to escape their pen and go galumphing about. Our farm was located next to a busy highway, so the authorities were summoned soon after our Holsteins made their first attempt at jaywalking.
We both knew that I was to blame for this debacle, because I was the one who hadn’t properly secured the gate. My wife compromised by not mentioning this ever again and I compromised by continuing to take her out on dates.
• Be sensitive to each other’s feelings.
A good example of this was when my wife was pregnant with our first son. She was quite apprehensive about the whole situation, while I was the epitome of cool, calm collectedness.
This was because I had witnessed dozens of farm animal births and had reached the conclusion that A) it isn’t that big a deal, and B) it don’t hurt all that much, and C) should difficulties arise, there are numerous surgical and mechanical methods that can be used to address them.
My wife didn’t care for my hilarious anecdotes regarding difficult farm animal births and told me so in no uncertain terms.
The birth of our first son was indeed difficult. Being sensitive to my wife’s feelings, I didn’t mention during the height of the crisis that someone had thought to pack the calf puller and that it was at the ready in the trunk of the car.
• Be nice to each other.
You wouldn’t think that this even needs to be said, but it appears this isn
’t the case. Many couples seem blind to the fact that kindness is essential for a long and happy relationship. This should be common sense, much like “never pick up a white cat when you’re wearing a black sweater” or “don’t throw a lit firecracker into a puddle of gasoline.” Being kind to each other is just that easy.
Some years ago, I decided to try the sport of skydiving. Did my wife insist that it was lick-a-frozen-flagpole foolish to leap out of a perfectly good airplane? Nope. She was kind and indulgent, never once invoking the old adage that there are only two things that fall from the sky: bird poop and idiots.
Things went haywire during what would be my final skydive. I lost control during free fall and my universe became a spinning blur of earth and sky. The parachute opening was a hard one, leaving bruises that made it appear that I had been on the losing end of a battle with a sledgehammer. The parachute lines became twisted, causing an “I’m gonna need clean underwear!” feeling to well up inside me as I dangled beneath the canopy at two thousand feet.
After I somehow managed to pull off a safe landing, my jumpmaster took me aside and advised, “There are old skydivers and there are bold skydivers, but there are no old, bold skydivers. You’re not doing so good with the bold part.”
I decided then and there that I’d had enough of skydiving, and my wife has been kind enough to never mention that it was a birdbrained idea to begin with.
These are just a few of the pointers that we have picked up over the years. And while we may never match the track record of Wilfred and his wife, we take comfort in the knowledge that we’re definitely going to outlast all the Kardashians. •
Hawaii Boy
We all evolve as we travel through life. For example, our younger son was called (by me) Annoying Boy when he was a teenager. This was changed to College Boy when he started at the university, but that was soon modified, for obvious reasons, to Laundry Boy.
And then, in the second year of college, he acquired an entirely new and unexpected handle: Hawaii Boy.
The driving force behind this strange evolution is the fact that South Dakota’s university system has reciprocity with the University of Hawaii at Manoa. When I learned of this, my initial reaction was “You must be kidding!” When I found out that they weren’t, I asked a person I know at South Dakota State University if I could get in on some of that reciprocity stuff. I was told that I could but that I would first have to enroll and become a full-time student. Nothing spoils a bunch of prospective fun quicker than being told that learning is part of the bargain.
I asked if any Hawaiians take advantage of this deal. I was shocked to learn that some actually do! I think that Hawaiian students should pay extra, as there is nothing like the pure, unadulterated misery of a Dakota winter to teach one how to fully appreciate life in paradise.
My wife grew ever sadder the closer Hawaii Boy’s departure came. “Don’t worry,” I assured her, “he’ll be back someday. I guarantee it.”
“How can you be so sure?” she asked, wiping away a tear.
“Because sooner or later, he’s gonna run out of clean laundry.”
My wife and I learned, via Hawaii Boy’s emails and phone calls, that his education was being extended far beyond that which was taught in the classroom.
For instance, he discovered what it’s like to be in the minority. In Hawaii, tall blond males are somewhat of a rarity. On the other hand, he was offered a job at Abercrombie & Fitch minutes after walking into the joint.
Hawaii Boy also found that wildlife abounded in paradise—some of it unexpected. He once complained to us that a pair of mongooses (mongeese?) had spent the night fighting beneath his window. Mongooses were brought to Oahu over a hundred years ago to control rats in the sugarcane fields and are now as much of a pest as the rats.
After a few weeks, my wife and I decided that it would be cruel to make Hawaii Boy spend Christmas without us, so we purchased tickets that would wing us to Honolulu. The cost? Let’s just say that my credit card emitted a warm nuclear glow for several days after the purchase.
But this visit was to be a twofer for us. Our nephew Adam, who has been like a son to us and a brother to Hawaii Boy, is an army nurse. Adam had recently been assigned to a duty station on Oahu. I imagine the news was delivered something like, “Listen up, soldier! You are being assigned to a new duty post. The work is going to be difficult and the hours will be long. Oh, and by the way, your new station will be located in the midst of paradise.”
It always drove my wife and our kids crazy whenever we traveled somewhere. I would gaze up at the craggy visage of Mount Rushmore or gawk at the lunar landscape of the Badlands and ask, “How can they grow corn here? Or even wheat?”
Growing nearly any crop doesn’t appear to be a problem in Hawaii. With 365 frost-free days (although we espied snow on the summit of the slumbering Mauna Kea volcano), the only limiting factor for plant growth would be rainfall. Annual precipitation in Hawaii varies widely from place to place. The windward side of an island can average over three hundred inches of rain per year, while the leeward shore might receive less than ten. This difference can be so stark, it’s been said that you can lean a double-barrel shotgun up against a post and one barrel will overflow with rainwater while the other will remain dry.
The island of Oahu rises up from the depths of the Pacific like a vast sea monster with numerous undulating humps that pierce the low-lying clouds. These jagged, emerald-hued peaks tickle the clouds’ fat bellies, causing them to laugh until they cry.
Every morning in Hawaii smells and feels like the first real day of spring. Birds—mostly mina birds and some sort of small gray dove—sing from the treetops. You wake up and walk out and it’s seventy-three degrees at sunrise. The high today will be eighty. The low tonight will be seventy-three. Throw in a fifty percent chance of rain and repeat into infinity.
The aroma of flowers and freshly cut grass is everywhere. Lawn mowing is a never-ending task on Oahu; on the other hand, they never have to shovel snow or scrape windshields.
We stayed at Adam’s house, which was neither heated nor air-conditioned; I doubt that it was even insulated. Open windows catch the perpetual trade winds for nighttime cooling. A person could probably sleep outside on the ground if he didn’t mind waking up to a wet bed due to nocturnal rain showers.
Honolulu is a bustling megalopolis, complete with gleaming skyscrapers, stiletto-heeled streetwalkers, and six-lane traffic jams. It takes two people to drive in Honolulu: one to steer and one to man a giant shoehorn whenever you want to commit the near-suicidal act of merging. Surprisingly, no one ever uses their horn.
It can rain at any random time of the day in Honolulu, even when the sun is shining at full wattage. As a result, rainbows are as common in Honolulu as roadkill is back home. Rainbows are such a familiar sight, Honoluluians pay them scant attention, no doubt thinking, “Ho-hum. Just another rainbow.”
In the Midwest, rain and rainbows are minor miracles, something to celebrate. These little miracles elicit only yawns in paradise.
Despite being the most urban of the Hawaiian islands, Oahu is also home to a good number of wild chickens and feral pigs. Knowing that such familiar livestock was present was a source of comfort for a former farm kid. Some of the hogs aren’t all that wild, though, and have been seen strolling along Waikiki Beach wearing much-too-small Speedos.
Adam’s house was situated just two blocks from the beach. The incessant trade winds cause sand to drift from the beach, blocking beachside footpaths. Were it snow, a person could think, “It’ll melt in a few days, so I don’t think I’ll shovel it.” I’m betting this is not an option with sand.
During my years as a dairy farmer, I acquired a knack for tackling difficult projects for which I had no experience or training. This ability came in handy during our visit to Hawaii.
Adam and Hawaii Boy insisted that we eat at a restaurant that specializ
es in a bizarre substance called “sushi.” I had no idea what to order, so I asked Adam to pick something from the menu for me. The impish gleam in his eye caused me to wonder what I might have gotten myself into. At length, a plate was set before me. Upon it sat a wad of rice wrapped around a piece of ichthyoid flesh that could best be described as “undercooked.” The fish was, in fact, completely and totally raw.
“Go ahead, try it,” urged Hawaii Boy in a tone of voice normally associated with tongues frozen to flagpoles. I had little choice in the matter. After all, I am an avowed eater of lutefisk, which is essentially poisoned cod that has been left out to dry. Closing my eyes, I popped the sushi into my mouth and chewed it down.
“Not bad,” I said. “Tastes like fishy rice.”
“Now try some wasabi,” challenged Adam. A small dollop of an evil-looking green paste was smeared onto the edge of my plate. I put a dot the size of a pencil eraser on my tongue. A mistake. Wasabi, it seems, translates to “nuclear horseradish.” My innards immediately began to protest as they launched into a full-blown meltdown.
Halfway through our weeklong tropical odyssey, we decided to take a two-day jaunt to the island of Hawaii. One afternoon, while motoring around the Big Island, we were all struck with severe hunger pangs. We stopped at a small convenience store to pick up some munchies, which turned out to quite different from those found here in the Midwest. I went straight to the beef jerky section, only to discover almost no beef jerky. My wife grabbed a bag of smoked ahi—a form of tuna, which tasted like fish—while I considered my options. I eschewed the smoked cuttlefish legs, instead choosing a bag of smoked . . . something. Only after consuming several bites of the chewy stuff did I look closely at the label.
